


Christmas Wish

by okapi



Series: Many Times, Many Ways (the Christmas fics) [18]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Bored Sherlock Holmes, Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Watson's Woes WAdvent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22043944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: A bored Holmes is summoned on a case just before Christmas.Sherlock Holmes (ACD) & Basil of Baker Street (The Great Mouse Detective).
Relationships: Basil of Baker Street/David Dawson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Many Times, Many Ways (the Christmas fics) [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/361097
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge, Watson's Woes WAdvent 2019





	1. Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Watson's Woes 2019 WAdvent Open Day #5 prompt: Wish and for MissDavisWrites' 2019 Advent Calendar Day 22: Miracle.
> 
> **The case is taken from P.D. James' short story "The Twelve Clues of Christmas." Complete spoilers for that work.**

Holmes sighed.

I’d done what I could to stave off the growing ennui, but boredom was proving a persistent spectre at our Yuletide feast. I’d gone so far as to propose that he and I exchange gifts earlier than was our custom, and he readily agreed.

Holmes had given me a handsomely bound volume by Clarke Russell, he that fabulous yarn-spinner of sea tales in which I could easily become absorbed for hours. Without similar foresight, I had given Holmes a new tobacco pouch and a pound of his favourite shag, which he was rapidly consuming. I felt somewhat the loser of the trade. While Holmes had afforded me a delightful respite from our forced confinement due to the monstrous snow drifts left by a savage winter storm, I’d only succeeded in giving him the means to make our shared atmosphere positively poisonous.

Holmes sighed.

With great humility, I recognised that I was unable to give Holmes what he most needed, that is, an interesting case to solve. It was quickly becoming my Christmas wish that someone in the great cesspool of idlers and loungers in which we resided would lose their life in a somewhat unusual manner and that the death, through official or unofficial means, would expeditiously come to the notice of the world’s only consulting detective.

I wasn’t optimistic, though, about the prospects. The snow that was keeping Holmes and I cooped up was also keeping those of cleverly criminal classes _in situ_ as well. Even if such villains and fiends happened to be committing crimes with features of interest, as Holmes often called them, how would we know? How would anyone know?

I sighed.

To my relief, Holmes set down his pipe. He got to his feet. He crossed the room. He bent. He picked up his violin and bow with every sign of launching into his favourite dirge.

It was then that I closed my eyes and made an ardent Christmas wish asking Providence for a highly improbably Christmas miracle. I was hoping, and indeed, listening for a knock or a ring of the bell or even the sound of carriage wheels bringing a client to our snowy doorstep. What I got was a pigeon with either strident myopia or very poor navigational skills trying to exert its right of way through the front window.

BAM!

“Good Lord!” I ejaculated. Holmes started, too.

Then poor, stubborn bird tried again.

BAM!

It was, by far, the most interesting thing that had happened all day. Holmes and I flew to the glass.

“He wants to come in!” I observed.

“It’s a messenger pigeon,” breathed Holmes, excitement creeping into his voice. He flew down the stairs in his dressing gown and slippers. I remained at the window and saw Holmes a few moments later shuffling in the snow, waving raised arms, and shouting. In the spirit of the season, I thought wryly, he was trying to get the attention of the pigeon by cavorting like Ebenezer Scrooge at the end of the Dickens’ story.

Holmes called out, “Get some of the seedcake, Watson!”

There was, indeed, some seedcake left over from our breakfast.

I soon joined Holmes, distracting the messenger while Holmes extracted the message. I had also brought the dregs of Holmes’s tea, of which the bird partook with obvious relish. Then, with a ruffle of feathers and a rather jaunty hoot, our courier took its leave.

“Magnification is required,” said Holmes as he unrolled the tiny scroll of paper, “even for my keen eyes.”

We hurried back upstairs, I wondering who on earth would be contacting us by carrier pigeon on Christmas Eve.

**Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same. Twelve clues of Christmas murder.**

These words were followed by an address and a signature.

“It’s Basil of Baker Street,” I read over Holmes’s shoulder.

“I have never known our downstairs neighbour to summon us in vain, Watson. No matter the expense or effort, we must brave the elements and visit this address forthwith.”

And that, as they say, was that.

* * *

“Who are you?”

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. I’m here about the sudden death.”

“We’ve had no sudden death here!”

“Really? Are you certain? Everyone accounted for?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“It is my business to know what others do not. An inspector from Scotland Yard is on his way, too, so I suggest you do a roll call. My colleague here is a doctor, so if by any chance, the person has not yet expired…”

“No one’s dead! I’m Helmut Harkerville.” The puzzled, anxious faces of lady and a man, both with the same pointed nose as the man who’d answered the door, appeared. “This is my sister’s Gertrude and my brother Carl. Other than that, there’s a temporary cook-housekeeper, Mrs. Dagworth,” the man turned his head, glanced at the floor, then shouted, “who really ought to do something about the mice problem!”

“And your,” Holmes’ eyes followed Mister Harkerville’s gaze to the floor and caught sight of a tiny scratching of a family tree, “uncle?”

“My uncle’s not down yet.”

“I’d like to speak to him, please. I want to wish him the compliments of the season.”

Helmut Harkerville snorted. “Doubtful. Uncle Cuthbert hates Christmas.”

“When I knocked at nine, he told me to go away and not disturb him!” squawked a woman who crowded into the already crowded doorway gripping the end of a broom with plastered fingers as if it were the hilt of a sword. “I heard him pull his Christmas cracker!”

Just then, a voice behind me said, “Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. I’d like to have a word with…”

“Cuthbert Harkerville,” supplied Holmes.

“Precisely,” said Lestrade.

Every face in the door went white, and a thin sheen of perspiration erupted on Helmut Harkerville’s brow. Not a soul spoke, but somewhere I heard a squeaking.

It might have been the creaking of a door or it might have a faint murine ‘They’ve come! At last!'


	2. Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For MissDavisWrites' 2019 Advent Calendar Day 23: Sentiment. 
> 
> I have written more about the Animas holiday that Basil and Dawson celebrate in [The Great Animas Caper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8937601/chapters/20459230). Also, for more Christmas fun with Basil and Dawson, check out art by the_last_day_of_winter [Mistletoe](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/2017331.html) and fic by luthienberen [Mouse-letoe Mischief](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22004596).

“…and so, you see, we have the twelve clues of Christmas murder.”

Holmes was taking centre stage, but the audience wasn’t just myself and Inspector Lestrade. At least four pairs of tiny mouse eyes were on him as well: two sets barely hidden by the headboard and another two peeping out of a hole in the floorboard.

“One, the so-called suicide note. Two, the scrap of passport. Three, the letter. Four, the stained pillow. Five, the hair ointment. Six, the cracker. Seven and eight, the cook. Nine, the holly. Ten, the Christmas pudding. Eleven, the still-warm fire. And, twelve, the matches.”

“What about the matches?” asked Lestrade, who was taking notes.

“There aren’t any.”

Lestrade huffed. “All right, I’ll take it from here.”

A squeaky ‘Hurrah, Hurrah!’ erupted.

“Goodness,” muttered Lestrade. “That fellow wasn’t kidding about the mouse problem!”

* * *

I harrumphed and shot a murderous look at the front of the house as Holmes and I made our way to the waiting cab.

I helped Holmes dislodge the wreath that was now collared ‘round his neck, a circle of decorated greenery which had been ripped from the front door and ignominiously squashed over Holmes’s head by Helmut Harkerville upon hearing what Lestrade thought of his uncle’s supposed suicide.

“Those are very prickly holly leaves!” I cried. “You’re cut and bleeding!”

Holmes laughed heartily. “I’ll heal and very quickly with your expert attention, Watson! These tiny scratches don’t concern me in the least.” He looked back at the house. “That was extraordinary. I’ve met with a lot of reactions from accused criminals in my day, but that has got to be the one with the most Yuletide spirit! I would almost tip my hat to Mister Helmut Harkerville if I wasn’t afraid that he’d try to strangle me with his own stocking or choke me with some of that horrid Christmas pudding!”

“I think he saves the poetic touches for relatives who are about to disinherit him,” I said with bitterness.

Holmes was still laughing when we reached the cab. I was not yet ready to be amused by the incident. I took a step and was about to launch the wreath at the door when a small voice squeaked.

“Doctor Watson?”

“Yes?” I spoke out of the corner of my mouth. It wouldn’t do to be seen in public talking to a mouse, even, or perhaps especially, if that mouse is hidden in one’s own pocket.

“Might we have the wreath?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Certainly. It should hang somewhere with a modicum of genuine Christmas sentiment.” I surveyed the ring. “Mind the mistletoe berries. They’re poisonous to someone of your size.”

“Oh, we won’t eat them. Basil will use them in all kinds of malodorous experiments.”

I chuckled and got in the cab beside Holmes.

“We’ll discuss everything when we are home,” said Holmes. He wasn’t really speaking to me, but rather to Doctor David Q. Dawson, who was riding in my pocket, and the great mouse detective, Basil of Baker Street, who was riding in his own.

“Oh, thank you for coming,” said Dawson. “I was so very worried that we were going to be stuck there. The snow is so high and transport so limited I feared that Basil might resort to, uh, creative modes of travel to get us home.”

Holmes coughed, and no more was said, or squeaked, for the remainder of the journey.

What a difference a case makes!

Holmes waltzed back into our rooms with a handsome swagger that brought a smile to my lips. He quickly exchanged his coat for a dressing gown and took up his violin and bow and played joyful carols as I settled myself and our guests.

As soon as Dawson and Basil were warming themselves by the fire, I went down to ask Mrs. Hudson to prepare a plate of sweets and savouries that might most appeal to nibbling palates. I returned with a platter piled high with fruit and cheese and nuts and chocolates and toasted bread.

“Now, Mister Basil, tell us how you and Doctor Dawson came upon so singular a case,” said Holmes after folding himself into his armchair and taking up his pipe and displaying more relaxed a manner than he done for days.

“I was alerted to the threat to Cuthbert Harkerville’s life by our good housekeeper, Mrs. Judson. She had gone to spend the Animas season with her sister who was very ill. Her sister lives beneath the Harkerville residence. Mrs. Judson overhead the master’s plans to elope with the housemaid as well as his family’s plans to stop him by any means, and she sent word for me and Dawson to come, but we were too late. The family had already carried out their plan, and old Mister Harkerville was dead.”

“They might have got away with it were it not for you two,” I remarked.

“It was a most intriguing case,” said Basil. “Twelve clues. You saw them as I did.”

“Indeed,” agreed Holmes with a grin. “I am not a sentimental man, but I have to say this case was a bit of a Christmas gift. He turned to me. “What do you say, Watson?”

“Undoubtedly, a gift. And I am a sentimental man!” Everyone laughed. “But I say, how are you two going to get this great big wreath down to your quarters?”

Dawson and Basil looked at each other and said, “Piece by piece, of course.”

We chatted some more and then settled into companionable silence. Holmes played carols. I turned to my sea stories. Dawson and Basil ate until they were stuffed, then set about uncoiling and disassembling the wreath.

When the last of the holly and ivy had disappeared through the mousehole, the two returned to express their thanks, wish us the compliments of the season, and take their leave. We returned the sentiments, and I can say with certainty that Christmas spirit reigned at 221B for quite some time.

* * *

“Oh, Basil!” I cried as I surveyed the lengths of greenery and ribbon and glass ornaments and bunches of berries, red and white.

“None of us were in the mood to celebrate Animas this year. Mrs. Judson because of her sister, naturally, but I had been so bored. You, too, were not feeling especially…”

“Seasonably sentimental?” I supplied. “Very true. I don’t know why. I am usually so eager for it. Sending out cards. Decorating the mousehole. But this year, nothing. But the case changed all of that! I don’t know whether it was seeing justice dispensed or being away from home for a while or simply that sumptuous feast we just enjoyed with the pleasant surroundings and the congenial company, but I feel much differently now.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Basil. “I hereby declare our Animas shall begin forthwith! Let’s deck the halls! We’ve all the trimmings.”

He slipped into his dressing gown, took up his violin and bow, and began to play.

“I know where I shall begin,” I said, cheekily. I raised a clump of mistletoe over my head. Basil glided towards me and touched his nose to mine, then looked up,

“Ah, I know just what I’m going to do with that!”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Have a Happy New Year!


End file.
